Here, in the land of rain, the dandelion greens grow thick in the front yards and thus will be harvested for dinner. Radish, lettuce, peas are sprouting. So are maple seedlings: the beds are littered with their jaunty flags.

Today: editing, a phone conference about a job, and then I am walking up to the archive to sit with other women's stories for an hour or so . . . to frame a space for thought, to let someone else's words filter into the structure of my worry, to smell the strike of a match.